


Silence

by LPSunnyBunny



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Asphyxiation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fear of Death, POV First Person, Self-Insert, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27565675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LPSunnyBunny/pseuds/LPSunnyBunny
Summary: Silence is consent when sound is a death sentence.
Relationships: Michael Myers/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> This was all written in a frenzy in response to _[this fucking commission.](https://twitter.com/Daltheznadof/status/1328933872508301314)_

His hand is so big, where it grips over the lower half of my face. It spans across my entire jaw, fingers big, palm big, big like the rest of him. It’s not a request, but an order, a _demand_ for silence. Even the tiniest, hitched whine or whimper has him squeezing harder, the strength in his rough hand enough to make me feel delicate and tiny, like with enough pressure he could shatter my jaw, break me apart.

Maybe that should be scary. I can’t do anything but find it horrifically arousing.

With every shift of his touch on me, my body grows hotter, arousal pooling in the cradle of my hips. He engulfs me so totally, so completely, his broad shoulders a bastion cutting off any chance of escape as he pins me to the table, as he takes from my body what he desires.

(Does he desire? Does he act on logic, following what he wants? Or is he indulging in something more base, animalistic? I don’t know. I don’t think I shall ever know.)

His white mask is blank, unfeeling, a façade of calm. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s what he really is, just a man made of nothing, though I intimately know there _is_ a man underneath it, I can feel him in every sense- hot, throbbing, solid. He runs hot under my hands as they grip his shoulders for something to hold onto. He doesn’t seem to care, so long as I do not struggle- and I am long past that stage. My heart pounds with fear of the knife sunk into the table above my head, his hand still gripping it tight, but it pounds moreso for the joining of our bodies.

My head rests back on his forearm and I can feel its tiny flexes, the minute shifting as he pins my head between his grip on my face and his arm. I am captured in such entirety, so completely, that I cannot even shake my head in a show of protest, of begging.

My breaths rush through his fingers, every inch of me tight as I struggle to control my voice. I am forced to take shallow inhales to keep myself quiet, but they are insufficient for the oxygen my body so desperately craves and as such my head is spinning, my lungs ache for one good pull of air. His vision is blurry as my fingers flex, gripping tight into his rough clothes as if I can sustain myself through sheer force of will.

Though I am desperately committed to the violent act of enforced silence, the air around is us not. His breathing is low and raspy, so unbothered by the act of taking, amplified by the mask on his face. There is not even a hitch, not a shudder, and that seems cruel, seems unfair when he has me like this, struggling to maintain my tenuous grasp on life through my fraying self-control. The wet sounds of our bodies are lewd and humiliatingly loud as he ruts, evidence of my own submission in how my body has opened up to him, how in the face of certain death I only got hotter, needier, and now this otherwise-unfortunate trait is proving to be my savior.

My vision is blurry when I crack my eyes open- the dirty, dull white of the spackled ceiling swims before my eyes over his shoulder. His head is down, his mouth by my ear, and the rasp of his breath sends an echoing shiver down my spine, into my gut, clenching around him like a doll with its string being pulled, winding itself back up tight.

He tore my leggings, pinned me to the table, silenced me and is using my body how he desires and yet- my lungs burn for air as surely as my body burns for _him_. I am nothing more than kindling to his flame, his cold, hot flame consuming everything in its path. He is dangerous and could kill me at any moment, could kill me when he is done, probably _will_ kill me when he is done, all I have likely caused is my ending to be dragged out for just a few minutes, few seconds, few _heartbeats_ more- but my heel still presses into his lower back, my hips still tilt up into his, I still get wetter and hotter with every movement of his hips.

The shifting of my hips is enough to get him bumping against that spot deep inside that has a wet little hitch in my throat echoing up into the open air at the hot, searing pleasure- and his hand shifts immediately to correct my mistake, clamping down over my nose and mouth, cutting off my already-restricted air.

My brain, having already been sinking into a hot, foggy state, tries to throw the alarm. My lungs shriek in protest as my eyes roll back, hands gripping and shaking in their hold on his clothes- sweat is breaking out across my skin and soaking my clothes even as his rutting continues, as I get tighter around him.

Perhaps this is how I die. Pinned down and taken by a man more dangerous than the devil.

Oxygen rushes back in and it takes everything I have not to sob or cough or suck in breath after breath- my mouth opens to soften the noises, to force myself to keep quiet, chest heaving as I pant as silent as I can make it, ruthlessly strangling the hot pulses in my gut as he continues to rut without any concern for my condition.

The room is spinning, most certainly, but I can’t tell if he’s anywhere near finished. How could one tell if they were in my position? He makes no grunts, no moans, not even a tight breath to show he’s close.

All I can do is let my eyes stare hazily at nothing as he ruts, mouth dry and head throbbing in time with my rabbit-quick pulse, using my heel on his back to try and urge him on, aching for him to go faster, harder, deeper. He seems indifferent to my silent pleas, the same as all others I had made, continuing his firm, unyeilding pace. Merely taking what he wants.

All at once, he stills. Heat blooms deep inside me and I have to bite down a gasp- silence is my only path to life, right now. He breathes slow and deep, his head turning slightly, the rubber nose of his mask gliding up my cheek. I wait with baited breath, body still hot and tight, aching with desire. He looks down at me and I look at him- at this angle, with the kitchn light behind him, I can’t see anything but the dark, shadowed eyeholes of his mask. Maybe there’s a glimmer in the void, but it's gone too fast to catch.

My head is jostled as he yanks the knife from the table, lets go of my mouth, pulling back. I struggle up onto weak elbows, cardigan hanging off my shoulders, legs wide with a dripping, throbbing neediness, watching with a dazed, flushed expression as he steps back and turns away, knife in hand. He moves soundlessly- even the creaky kitchen storm door makes no sound as he pushes it open and steps through.

He didn’t kiss me. I almost wish he had.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy my writing, check me out on twitter at [@LPSunnyBunny](http://www.twitter.com/LPSunnyBunny)!


End file.
